


great expectations

by atswimtwobros



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Buddies, M/M, PWP, Pool (the game not the object), Small Penis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 15:31:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23237413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atswimtwobros/pseuds/atswimtwobros
Summary: It's starting to give Travis a little bit of a complex, is all.or: the small dick fic.
Relationships: Travis Konecny/Nolan Patrick
Comments: 39
Kudos: 522





	great expectations

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any questions or complaints, I am on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/atswimtwobros) and [Tumblr](https://atswimtwobros.tumblr.com).
> 
> Thank you as always to [jolach](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jolach/pseuds/jolach) for the hand-holding, as well as @onlyhere4therat and NB. 
> 
> Also! If you're reading "wax poetic" as well, it's going to take me a little longer to finish that up because of, as you know, everything. Thanks for reading, hope you have fun!

Travis’d be fully lying if he said he wasn’t looking forward to Patty’s huge dick. Like— yeah, he’s never seen it, somehow, but Patty’s a brick slab stacked on a skyscraper gently resting on a mountain. Even if it's just proportional, Travis’ll be in for a treat. 

Except he keeps missing his chance to get around to it.

Like— they’re on Kev’s huge couch on a night off watching a Criminal Minds rerun Travis has seen about six times and Patty keeps shifting around: he leans forward to set his beer on the table and when he leans back he's inexplicably foot closer to Travis; he shoves his phone in his pocket and when he resettles, their thighs are almost touching; he coughs into the crook of his elbow and somehow ends up straddling Travis’ lap. 

It's not really conducive to watching TV but Travis never much liked the episodes about arsonists anyway. He gets his hands under Patty’s hoodie right away, squeezing at the soft skin above the waistband of his shorts and grinning up at him. “Yeah?”

Patty’s glaring down with his eyes narrowed, that same pissy look he's started with every time they've done this so far. Maybe he thinks it makes him look hot; Travis couldn’t in good conscience tell him he's wrong. “You and your fucking murder shows,” he bitches, rolling his hips a little to resettle more firmly over Travis’ newly interested dick. “Shit's depressing.”

Travis snorts, sliding a palm up the broad expanse of Patty’s back— his skin’s tacky with sweat, overheated beneath the hoodie he refuses to remove until the dead of summer. “Alright, Bon Iver*.”

“‘Beth/Rest’ still goes,” Patty protests, distracted by his efforts to remove Travis’ shirt. Travis momentarily gives up his hip-grip to assist, shivering a little when the air hits his chest.

“I don’t know what that means,” Travis says, feigning sadness as he shoves his hands back under Patty’s hoodie, tracing his fingers over the little roll his shitty posture gives his stomach. “I only listen to Garth Brooks.” He circles a thumb over Patty’s bellybutton because it always makes him squirm, ticklish. 

“On CD,” sneers Patty, lip curled up like he's disgusted by the very idea. Travis means to counter— he _ has _ to listen to a CD because Garth Brooks isn't on Spotify, actually, which Patty will _ hate, _ which will make Travis laugh, which—

All of that gets lost against Patty’s mouth, big body pressing Travis into the back of the couch like he's trying to make him disappear right into it, a magic trick. Patty gets a hand in Travis’ hair, strings to a puppet, dragging his head exactly where he wants it and holding him still when he finds something he wants to focus in on— Travis’ neck, which is going to look fucked up tomorrow, and Travis’ ear, which surprises a squeak right out of him and has him driving his hips up into the weight of Patty crushing him into the cushions. He can _ feel _Patty smiling against his jaw, but all Travis can do is stare up at the ceiling and hang on for dear life, fingers alternating between flexing uselessly against Patty’s sides and trying to drag him down more firmly, work up a rhythm. 

A noise from Kevin’s room freezes them both for a split second before Patty’s rolling off him like an undercover agent, throwing himself bodily against the far corner of the couch and stretching out like he’s been there all night. Travis is a little slower but he does manage to grab the single throw pillow and drag it into his lap. They’re still for maybe a minute, eyes locked unseeingly on the television while they hold their breaths and listen to Kevin bump around through the wall. 

Travis chances a peek at Kevin’s door: the light’s gone off, at least? Maybe they should give it another few—

Travis is still calculating strategy when Patty falls mouth-first on his dick, clawing Travis’ shorts out of the way like they called that shitty sad band he likes a shitty sad band. By the skin of his teeth, Travis gets a palm over his own mouth before he makes the world's most embarrassing noise— it's all over pretty quick. Travis refuses to be ashamed of it: Patty looks like _ that_, sue him. 

When Travis tries to return the favor, he ends up flat on his back with Patty’s tongue in his mouth. He has to loop his arms around Patty’s neck just to keep up, to slow him down when Travis starts getting dizzy. Patty's greedy like that— greedy about kisses, about Travis’ dick. It's flattering and stupid hot, even if Travis ends up winded every time they hook up.

* * *

It's starting to give Travis a little bit of a complex, is all. Like, he can suck a dick. He can give a worldclass handjob according to not one but _ two _road roomies from Juniors. 

But Patty’s got this dickmatizing magic thing where the second Travis drops to his knees in a friendly way or tries to untie Patty’s sweats, as buddies do, Travis comes to his senses an untold time later with the life vacuumed right out of his dick and Patty looking smug and red and entirely without need of Travis’ returned services. 

It's not _ bad, _but Travis likes to do stuff. He's a doer. A giver, if you will. 

So he starts dropping hints. Just subtle little messages, real subliminal shit. Like—

“Throw those hands up if you wanna get blooooown!” 

Doesn't go according to plan. Patty barely glances up from his phone where he's sprawled out over the hotel bed, gives one half-assed eye roll before mumbling, “Fine, get over here.”

Which is not what Travis intended, but he did, in retrospect, throw his own hands up when he said it. He got excited. Happens to the best. And he does get over there, because he was asked, so it’s only polite. 

Post stellar nut, he tries to pull himself together enough to reciprocate, regretfully dodging Patty’s attempt to kiss him senseless and sort of— lunging for his sweats. His coordination hasn’t fully returned from wherever Patty hid it so he ends up face-planting beside Patty’s hip on the fluffy hotel bed. 

“Nice one.” Patty’s voice is all raw and the gravel in it settles right in Travis’ gut. Patty rolls away from him, standing up and making a leisurely escape to the bathroom while Travis is still busy trying to feel his legs. 

So that time doesn’t work out. 

* * *

Maybe his problem is he’s planning too much. Maybe he just needs to launch a sneak offensive. 

That goes like:

Fucking around on the Xbox. Keeps noticing how stupid big Patty’s hands look on the controller. Feels a little horny about it. Drops his own controller on the floor and slides across the couch, grins when he plops himself down in Patty’s lap and hears the sad little character death noise behind him. 

“Dude,” Patty starts, bitchy hawk eyebrows in place, shifting like he’s getting ready to dump Travis straight into the coffee table. 

Travis tightens his arms around Patty’s neck, ducking in to kiss him a little, sweet talk him a little. He’s shooting arrows in the dark there— they haven’t been doing this long enough for him to know Patty’s buttons, but it’s not like he has to make up shit about Patty that gets him off. “Love how big you are, bud,” he tries, lips right up to the burning shell of Patty’s ear. Travis’ own dick twitches in his shorts in agreement. 

Patty is dishearteningly still beneath him for a second, but he finally puts a wide palm on Travis’ low back, pressing him forward until Travis’ dick is shoved right up against the soft cushion of Patty’s abs. 

Which is how he ends up panting into Patty’s mouth while rubbing off against his stomach and completely forgetting his main objective. 

It should not be this fucking difficult.

* * *

So maybe he needs a middle ground between masterminding (sort of) and spur of the moment. Like, and he is refusing to examine why this did not come to him sooner: just asking. 

They don't really do _ dates_, but there's this shitty little hole-in-the-wall Philly bar Patty’s obsessed with, and they go sometimes. 

There's a pool table, which Patty’s also weirdly obsessed with. And pretty good at— Travis always means to ask how he got so handy at it, but then he starts losing and gets mad and forgets. Maybe today’s the day he strikes two things off his to-do list. 

Patty commandeers the pool table, mean-mugging the room at large, while Travis goes to grab drinks. When he gets back and hands Patty’s beer over, he leans in close enough to ask, pretty casually in his opinion, if he can blow him.

Once Patty’s recovered from snorting beer out his nose (not strictly Travis’ fault), he levels Travis with a severely unimpressed look. His grip on the pool cue has a distinctly weapony vibe. “We're in a bar.”

“I meant later,” Travis clarifies, grabbing his own cue off the wall for personal protection and also pool. “When we get home.” 

He settles in at the side of the table to watch his favorite program— Patty racking ‘em up, the way the billiards look in his massive hands and how confidently he rolls them between his fingers. Like those Insta videos of lifelong chefs cutting onions or whatever— it's almost mechanical except for the way he'll linger a second to get the triangle absolutely centered on the table, tiny wrinkle of concentration on his forehead. It's a process Patty treats with something akin to love, takes his time with despite how second-nature all the movements seem. So it becomes increasingly obvious as Patty fiddles with the balls and the triangle and the chalk and positioning the cue ball _ just so— _ that it's taking him a long time to answer. 

Travis watches Patty bend over the table for the break, this beautiful arc of his long-ass body that makes losing at pool every single time totally worth it. He considers asking again as Patty lines up his first shot, fucking him up so the ball skews uselessly off to the side. 

But he gets so caught up in the smooth slide of the cue through Patty’s fingers, the showy little near-taps to the back of the cue ball that leave just a touch of blue chalk. It's so gentle, precise in a way that has Travis holding his breath while he waits for it—

The tension snaps on the _ crack— _the slick glide of the lacquered wood over Patty’s scuffed knuckles sending the cue ball, quick and straight as an arrow, into the point of the triangle, breaking the whole formation beautifully. 

It's like music. Travis loves this shit. 

A solid rolls lazily into a corner pocket and Patty straightens up and circles the table to examine his options, eyes sweeping the cloth with practiced calculation. “If you win,” he says.

Travis is admittedly too busy staring at the stretch of Patty’s t-shirt over his back as bends for his shot to parse what he actually said. “Huh?”

Patty pots another solid— two down. He passes close to Travis on his table circuit, just a brush of elbows. It shouldn't be anything. “If you win, you can blow me.” He leans into his next shot while Travis chews on that.

Travis winds up frowning, genuinely distressed. “Dude, that'll never fucking happen,” he complains. Then, because it's honestly the first time it's occurred to him— “If you don't want me to, you can just say—”

_ Crack_, again. Solid ball, side pocket. Three out of seven. “I don't not want you to.”

“You don't not want me to,” Travis repeats to himself, scowling when another ball goes straight into the same hole. “What does that even mean?”

Patty pauses with the stick already lined up, looking across the table to make eye contact with Travis for just a second before looking away. “I don't know if I like it.”

What Travis _ wants _ to say is: _ WHAT? _But Patty looks kind of nervous, shoulders collapsed and mouth set in a thin, defiant line like he's expecting something shitty.

So Travis catches himself, asks, “Have you only had bad ones or like—?” 

Patty’s shot skews left, missing the pocket by an inch. He glares while Travis finally gets to set up for his _ first _turn. 

“I haven't had any. Good or bad.”

Travis blinks, forcing himself to keep his eyes on the striped ball nearest the far corner with some effort. “Okay,” he says easily, taking his shot (clumsy, but effective). When it goes in, he can't help but grin a little. “So there's no way I'll be the worst beej you've ever had.”

“Technically, you'd be the worst and best.” Patty hums smugly when Travis’s next shot goes wide. He bumps Travis out of the way to line up. “And don’t say ‘beej.’”

“Hey, you still get a medal if you're the only guy who shows up for the race.” 

_ Crack _, five out of seven. “Participation trophy, huh?” Patty smiles a little; it falls away quickly when he continues, “And what if it's not what you're, like, hoping for?” 

Travis isn't sure what that means, and he frowns while he scratches at his neck and tries to think of a way to answer that's both honest and helpful. “I don't really know how it could _ not _ be— like, I've wanted to suck your dick for weeks,” he admits, forgetting for a second that they're in a very public bar. 

There's something predatory about the way Patty paces the table. Six out of seven goes in and Patty flashes him a warning look. “What do you think it'll be like?” he presses. 

“Hot,” Travis answers immediately. He doesn't even need to think about it. 

“And you really want to do it.” Patty says it like a statement, like he knows. Which he_ should_; Travis is trying to telegraph it from every cell in his body right now. Patty positions himself carefully, bending to line up what’s very likely his last shot. 

Travis could make a joke or fuck this up, but— “I really, really want to,” he says as earnestly as he can. Puts in all the _ please _that'll fit in his voice. 

Patty glances up at him, calculating, thoughtful. He rolls the cue between his fingers gently, tilting his head to size Travis up. “Okay,” he says finally, drawing the cue back and taking the shot in one fluid motion, sending the eight ball sailing decisively into the side pocket, scratching the game.

It's just one bud telling another bud he can suck his dick in the most romantic way possible— losing— but still, Travis thinks there should be like, confetti or something.

* * *

They rock-paper-scissors for who drives home but Travis throws the game, too pumped to trust himself behind the wheel. Like driving yourself to your first playoff game— just nuts. He sits in the passenger seat and jiggles his leg, fucks with the sun visor, rearranges apps on his phone, tries not to ask Patty a zillion questions that are banging around in his brain.

Fails at that last one, spectacularly.

“So did no one ever ask, or—?” 

They're at a red light and it's late enough that the streets are pretty tranquil. Travis would've been happy to play anywhere he got drafted, but it feels special here sometimes, singular. 

“I always turned them down.” Patty’s talking low, not exactly embarrassed but nowhere near confident. If he weren't driving, if he didn't have a firm grip on the wheel, Travis might do something crazy like reach over and take his hand. 

“So had you never— like before we...” Travis’ head spins, trying to recalculate the last few weeks as a bunch of firsts for Patty, and that feels— like, not knowing, not talking about it feels—

“Stop freaking out.” Oh, thank god. “I've hooked up; I just never let anyone turn the tables.” Patty’s expression morphs into offended suddenly, tossing Travis an acidic look. “As if I didn't know what I was doing when you lasted like two minutes every time.”

“First of all, you're a champ, bud, but I didn't want to discount any natural talent. And B of all, I'm a solid fiver _ at least, _every single time.”

“What,” Patty snorts, “Do you count it out?” 

The highway's a little busier than the side streets were so Travis doesn't feel as caught out when his face goes hot. “Can I ask, like, why? Since we're gonna—” It's like it hadn't hit him, at first, when Patty said no one had done it to him before. A jolt of nerves gets Travis right in the gut, not a bad feeling but a big one. He’d sort of thought he'd outgrown first times with people, but that seems stupid now. 

There's no answer but the sound of muted night traffic through the windows. No music on the radio even; neither of them had remembered to call dibs on the playlist. Travis chances a glance at Patty’s face— the passing flashes of streetlights aren't enough to read every little thing going on in his head, but there's a tightness to his jaw that looks unpleasant.

“I get embarrassed,” Patty finally admits through gritted teeth.

Travis wonders if perhaps he should've obtained a PhD before attempting this conversation. He tries to say _ there's nothing to be embarrassed about _ and _ everybody’s different, _ends up just saying, “Bodies, huh?” like a full moron.

Patty squints at the windshield. “Helpful.”

“Look, I just— I'm excited. To do this with, and like, _ to _you. You're stupid hot, bud, and it's like...an...” This is going poorly. “— an honor...” Jesus.

At least they're fucking home finally, pulling into Kevin’s garage as Patty scowls and asks, “Do you think you're accepting a Grammy right now?” 

Probably not the best time for Travis to get syrupy, Pat being Pat and all, but he does go a little warm, smiles despite how sideways the whole conversation’s gone. “Kinda, to be honest.”

Patty goes _ ugh _ under his breath, but Travis catches the way his lips tilt up as he turns away to climb out of the car.

* * *

The vibe, once they get up to Pat’s room is... distinctly unsexy. Feels kind of like a doctor’s office waiting room or the DMV. Travis is all for a challenge, but there’s a chill in the air that’s making him gun-shy. 

“So,” he tries, pasting on a brave face and tossing himself down on Patty’s bad, “Come here often?” He waggles his eyebrows for effect. Patty does not look particularly affected. He’s got his shitty face on, but he’s also standing a solid six feet away with his arms crossed over his chest, so Travis doesn’t think he means it in a sexy way this time. It’s kind of getting in Travis’ head, but if he feels weird, it’s pretty clear Patty’s feeling worse. 

Travis holds a hand out, wiggling his fingers in Patty’s direction. “Pat, come here, come ooonnn.” He grins a little, a friendly gesture at the world’s spookedest horse of a fuckbuddy. 

Patty visibly deliberates for a beat before giving in, crossing to the bed and dropping down on the edge— he doesn’t take Travis’ offered hand, but he does bump it with his elbow. That’s something. 

Travis scoots until he can bracket Patty with his body, a little caterpillar of a U-shape wrapped around his back. He could probably say something, but when Travis glances up, Patty’s got his thinking face on, planning. Travis leaves him to it, instead focusing his attention on grabbing one of Patty’s hands out of his lap, fucking around with his fingers just for something to do. 

He’s never actually done that thing where you hold your hand up to somebody’s to compare the size, never really wanted to— but he does it now, matching up the heels of their palms with interest and examining the way their fingers line up. The tip of his middle finger reaches just barely up to the bend of the last knuckle on Patty’s, like it’s crossing a little finish line.

Travis flushes when he realizes Patty’s been watching him, eyes on their palms pressed together. He grins apologetically, tries to pull away— but Patty twists his hand, laces their fingers together. It's like missing a step going down the stairs: an adrenaline shock, a flux of gravity.

His mouth opens on instinct but before he can shove his foot in it, Patty’s rolled him onto his back. For once, he doesn't kiss Travis like he's trying to distract him or boil him over; Travis still ends up breathless, so maybe that's been his own problem the whole time. 

“You can't laugh,” Patty mumbles into Travis’ shoulder. He's so heavy, it makes Travis a little sleepy.

“I'm not gonna,” Travis promises. He’d put a hand to his heart if they weren't both busy sneaking under Patty’s hoodie to rub tiny circles into the warm skin of his lower back. 

Patty blows out a damp breath right into Travis’ neck, because whatever Travis might feel about him, he's still awful. “Alright.”

It's so Patty to do something he's dreading in the most silently confrontational way possible. Travis wants to be like, _hey, dumbass, come back here and _I _will remove your pants free of charge without this awful distance— _but he's Patty, so he chooses to stand at the foot of the bed and glare vaguely in Travis’ direction while he pulls his hoodie off, pushes his pants down his legs and kicks them across the floor.

The lead-up honestly had Travis expecting something wild. Two dicks, maybe, or like, polka dots. Candy stripes. 

“You're a grower, dude, it's fine.” Travis does not get the problem. He is ready to _ go _and if it takes Patty longer to get there, that's whatever: bodies do what bodies do, and it's totally—

“I'm not.” Patty’s face is the reddest thing Travis has ever seen, a sun-warmed, garden-fresh tomato of emotion. It looks like it should hurt, like if Travis poked his cheek his whole body might deflate like a balloon.

It is not, admittedly, what Travis was expecting; it takes him a minute to catch up. His eyes skip back down the long line of Patty’s body and settle in on his whole package again. It is certainly not proportional. In fact, it's more like that thing in math where the number over itself is one but then you put the one over the number and it makes the whole thing a lot... smaller. 

_ Inverse_, the ghostly voice of his grade school teacher intones from the past. 

The unfortunate thing about the moment Travis takes to observe and consider mathematics is that it's just enough time for Patty to get nervous, use one giant hand to cover himself and that, it turns out, is enough to kickstart Travis’ brain into high gear. 

Travis army-rolls off the bed and to his feet, leaving his stunned brain behind in his rush to get at Patty, back him up against the wall and kiss the fuck out of him. There's a hiss of breath when Patty’s bare back hits the wall, a grunted “_Cold!” _ that Travis swallows right down. 

His senses catch up with him and he pulls back enough to breathe, offer Patty a look of bashful contrition. “I don't think it's gonna be a problem for me,” he admits, though the way he hasn't been able to pull his hands away from running up and down Patty’s flanks is probably evidence enough.

Still, Patty looks a little standoffish, a little stunned. “Yeah?” His voice is so uncertain, but when Travis stumbles back to the bed and falls assfirst onto the sheets, Patty takes a tentative step towards him.

Travis does his stupidest _ come hither _gesture, too giddy to act right. Feels like a good step towards normalcy when Patty rolls his eyes. 

It'd probably be too much to do the full under the hood inspection Travis is buzzing for— Patty still looks ready to bolt any second even though he's edged closer, almost shin to shin with Travis now. 

“Don't fuck with me,” Patty warns, all gruff and mean and, underneath it, scared. He's close enough to reach, close enough for Travis to sit up on the edge of the bed and drop his forehead against the soft give of Patty’s stomach.

“I cannot stress to you enough,” Travis says, chin bumping against the hand Patty’s still using to cover himself, “that all I want to do is fuck with you. But like—” It's not something they do, or not something they've done: these gentle appreciations of the other’s bodies; Travis does it anyway, presses a quick kiss below Patty’s belly button before soldiering on. “Only in the good ways.”

“You're so fucking soft.” If Patty means to sound mean, he undershoots by a mile. 

Travis leans back enough to make eye contact, happy to see Patty’s face looking infinitely less shitty. Still nervous, but that's all time, all proof. “You gonna drop that hand anytime soon?” He taps the back of Patty’s knuckles for good measure.

Tiny quirk at the corner of his mouth. “Thinkin’ about it.” One knee up on the bed, a push to the center of Travis’ chest to send him sprawling. It's not dissimilar to all the times Patty smokescreened him but Travis lets it happen. His mom always said trust is a two-way street, or whatever. 

And that new way Patty kisses him again, less an onslaught he's trying to bury Travis beneath, soft enough to let him think, let him feel something outside his own body. So he notices the way Patty keeps his hips carefully pulled away, the steadying pressure against Travis’ dick all tensed quads. 

Travis gives him a warning, a little, “Hey, c’mere,” before he gets his hands on Patty’s ass and pulls him down. Skin to skin would be better, but Travis forgot to take his fuckin’ pants off and it doesn't seem like the right moment to slow down for it, Patty finally huffing a soft breath against Travis’ neck and fully dropping his weight. 

It's awesome? Like, there's probably some kink for just getting crushed to the point of orgasm by a big-bodied bitch whose hair keeps getting in your mouth while he relatively gently drills you into the mattress (Travis will check some websites later), but he's also feeling a little one-track. He did, technically, win after all. 

“Hey, flip,” he prods, pushing and pulling at Patty until he lets Travis roll them over. Patty blinks up at him, that super-watchful glint in his eye, tracking everything when Travis whips his own shirt over his head and tosses it off to the side. He ducks in to kiss Patty one more time, a quick peck to catch his full attention. “We can always raincheck, bud.”

The breath Patty draws in isn’t quite steady but it’s deep. Instead of answering, he puts the heel of his palm on Travis’ forehead and pushes him down his body. And it’s like— this is exactly what Travis always wants, to laugh until he’s lightheaded, even while he’s shouldering Patty’s thighs out of the way, finally eye-level with all his weird little tattoos. 

Getting between Patty’s long legs is an actual wet dream come true, hand to god. The view up his body isn’t half-bad either, the red from his cheeks spread haphazardly down his neck and chest. Travis wonders how much of it’s embarrassment, how much is excitement.

There should probably be some level of easing into it, some strategy, but Travis gets within sucking distance of Patty’s dick and forgets himself. Tongue-first, no warning, just a bell struck somewhere in his head, _ do it, do it, do it. _ It’s next to nothing to get his mouth on Patty, barely a strain in his jaw, and Travis realizes with a molten drop in his stomach that he could do this all day, just keep Patty right here if he likes it. Feels like being hit by a freight train; he wants _ everything_, immediately: he wants to know what it looks like when Patty jerks off, how he can even keep a grip on himself when his hands are so fucking big and his dick barely reaches the back of Travis’ tongue. All fingertips maybe, the precise and careful way he’d handled the pool cue earlier.

The way Patty responds— the hurt noise, the full-body spasm like he can’t tell if he wants more of Travis’ mouth or none of it— the small part of Travis’ brain that isn’t just a horny self-high-five gets rat-trapped in a bone-grinder of a thought: does Patty _ feel it _more? Like, is everything centralized for him, narrowed down and blown out with all the nerves packed in less space?

Travis wants to hide the hopeless sound the whole thing rips from him, but there’s just not enough in his mouth to mute the noise, and _ that’s _ a fucking grade A sexual tragedy that yanks right at him, tries to pull his marrow right out through his dick where he’s shoving himself up against the mattress.

The first time Travis got blown he was too nervous to come, which makes it even more gratifying when he feels that tell-tale jerk of Patty’s dick in his mouth, catches the spike of his breath, ramping and ragged. The way Patty’s body curls into it, the shaky fingers he shoves into Travis’ hair to keep him there. The bowstring quiver of Patty’s thighs on either side of his face— that’s the good shit, that’s what Travis has been hounding after since they started doing this. He’d do a fist-pump if he weren’t so busy shoving his hands down his own shorts, hanging onto that blood-boiling euphoria while he quickly pulls himself off. Shorts ruined, but he can just kick them off and deal with it later. 

He’s winded again when he crawls up the bed and collapses beside Patty on the pillow; maybe that part will just never go away. Aside from the slowly settling heaving of his chest, Patty’s motionless, but his skin’s so warm where their shoulders are pressed together. 

“Was it good?” Travis asks, equally kidding and curious. 

He gets a huge palm slapping down on the sensitive skin of his stomach, a bright sting for his trouble. Patty grumbles, “Shut the fuck up,” but he sounds half-asleep, which is— that feels good. Everything’s felt good, but finally getting to see Patty all post-come slow and sleepy...

Travis hadn’t even realized he wanted that part, is all. It’s like getting a birthday present you asked for and someone throwing in Christmas just for the hell of it. Just because they like you that much. 

He thinks about saying it, saying something syrupy, maybe a little too much for what they’re doing, how they’re doing it for now. But Patty’s breaths have already evened out where he’s rolled onto his side, the hand he whacked against Travis’ belly a few seconds ago curled around Travis’ hip now, prehistoric-sloth vibes. It’d be hard to move, but Travis doesn’t particularly care to do so, the weight of Patty’s head against his shoulder more than enough to swamp him into contentment. 

He wants to ask Patty to teach him how to play pool later, hopes he remembers when he wakes up from the doozy of a nap he can feel pulling him under. 

**Author's Note:**

> *Travis pronounces it “bonny bear” because I still think constantly about them winning Best New Artist and a bunch of people angrily tweeting "who the fuck is bonny bear." There used to be an entire Twitter documenting that night. Hope it's still out there somewhere. I'm ignoring the fact that these two people were unformed clay during this IRL occurrence.


End file.
